Texts and Research 

It was one of those frosty nights that freeze your breath on your face and clear the mind in a way you would rather have been spared.
Rondorf, a small suburb of Cologne, lay asleep beneath a blanket of snow so thick and immaculate that one might have thought the world itself had decided to hold its breath for a while. The streets, usually so familiar and lively, had vanished, buried beneath a glittering mass that gave the impression that the sky itself had shaken out a giant feather duvet. The roofs of the houses, covered in heavy white, resembled cakes generously iced with sugar glaze – so perfect that it almost seemed a shame to touch them.

The night was so quiet that even the faintest sound felt like an unwelcome guest. It was one of those nights that make you believe time itself has frozen. Only the distant, lonely barking of a dog, somewhere struggling against the cold and the silence, broke the icy harmony. It was a sound that seemed to rise from the depths of winter itself, a melancholic reminder that, no matter how rigid and frost-bound nature may appear, life still finds a way to make itself heard.

One might have thought Rondorf a scene from a fairy-tale book – one of those old fairy tales you start reading as a child but never finish, because the stories are too fantastical to ever truly end. And perhaps, just perhaps, no one dared to disturb the silence that night, for fear of breaking the spell.

Yet in the midst of this peaceful darkness, something occurred that would place the small village briefly in the spotlight – or at least on the front page of the local newspaper.

At precisely 2:37 a.m., a shrill ringing shattered the monotonous night shift at the Rodenkirchen police station. The officer on duty, who had been attempting with little success to drink a cup of coffee, sighed and picked up the receiver. On the other end of the line was a voice as excited as a child on Christmas morning.

“This is Käte Buchmüller from Rondorf speaking,” the caller began, with that mixture of indignation and drama typical of people who have found their calling in observing the unremarkable. “There’s a baby in the stable at the Johanneshof! Very suspicious, really dark figures! They’re foreigners! You have to come – and quickly!”

The officer sighed again. Normally, a night in Rodenkirchen consisted of noise complaints or reports of improperly parked cars.
But Mrs. Buchmüller sounded so convincing that she decided to send a patrol car.

The miserable state of accommodation in Rondorf

The truth, as it so often does, began far less spectacularly.

Maria H. and her fiancé Joseph H. had been searching for accommodation that evening with dwindling hope and growing despair. They were travelling in a state-of-the-art electric car – one of those silent, sleek vehicles that seem to run by magic, as long as the battery cooperates. But that was precisely the problem: the battery had given up. The cold delivered the final blow. Somewhere between Immendorf and Rondorf, the car had come to a definitive halt, leaving the two of them standing in the freezing darkness with a vehicle that was new, but as useless as a rusted anchor in the desert.

Somewhere in the Bergisches Land, where roads wind like poorly coiled string, they had managed to charge the battery a little one last time before fresh snowfall forced them onward. Their journey had led them through the winding roads of the so-called Schäl Sick, a region where villages appear scattered at random and time occasionally seems to stand still. Eventually, they crossed the Rodenkirchen Bridge to the west, the Rhine beneath them a sluggish ribbon, almost motionless in the icy night.

It was a decision Joseph had made with great confidence, despite Maria repeatedly reminding him that they had no clear plan – or worse, no charging stations. When the battery finally dropped to a worrying ten percent and the car’s display began flashing red warnings like a hysterical captain on a sinking ship, Joseph decided to leave the motorway.

“Rondorf,” he said resolutely, as if it were a destination promising rescue and warmth, rather than simply the nearest name on the navigation screen.

Maria looked at him, her expression wavering between hope and resigned doubt, but she said nothing. Her feet hurt, her back ached, and she had long learned that in moments like these, one does not argue – one simply goes along.

The road they took was narrow, lined with high banks of snow. The car glided silently onward as the last reserves of the battery shrank, as though swallowed by the cold itself. Finally, in the middle of a dark field, the car gave up entirely. It was a farewell that was neither dramatic nor surprising – more like an old friend who simply cannot go on any longer.

“That’s it,” Joseph murmured, striking the steering wheel with a force that achieved nothing except hurting his hand.

Maria groaned softly and placed her hands on her belly. “We have to keep going,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument.

And so they set off, trudging through the snow with heavy steps, leaving behind the car, now nothing more than a gleaming but abandoned shell. Their footsteps crunched in the snow, the cold biting at their faces, while Rondorf lay ahead, quiet and illuminated only by reflected snow – like a secret waiting to be uncovered.

It was a night in which technology had betrayed them, but they were undeterred. After all, humans have travelled far greater distances armed with nothing but determination and the iron will not to stop.

Joseph stood at the door of the guesthouse Pension Hazienda, his hands buried deep in his pockets to shield them from the biting cold. He rang the bell, knocked, rang again, until at last a grumpy figure appeared, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe.

“Not a single bed available! You know, Christmas. Maybe you’ll have better luck at the Großrotter Hof. Straight down the road,” the man said without really looking at Joseph. With a half-hearted shrug, he disappeared back into the warmth of the house, leaving Joseph standing in the freezing night air.

They trudged on through the snow-covered village, its houses now little more than vague shapes through the icy wind and renewed snowfall.

At the counter of the hotel Großrotter Hof, Joseph pleaded with the innkeeper, a massive man whose face seemed carved from red brick.

“I just need one room,” Joseph begged, pride long since overtaken by necessity.

The innkeeper shook his head slowly, with a mixture of regret and indifference. “Fully booked,” he grumbled. “And it’s the holidays. Sorry.”

Hope faded, and with it their strength. Eventually, they reached the Johanneshof, a farm at the edge of Rondorf, whose old stable was little more than a shadow in the darkness. It was no hotel, no inn – just a simple stone building whose best days were long gone.

But Maria, exhausted and barely able to speak, insisted they stay. “It’s enough,” she murmured weakly. “At least it’s dry.”

Joseph hesitated no longer. He pushed open the creaking door and led Maria inside, where cold, musty air greeted them. The floor was covered in straw – old and disheveled, but better than the winter cold outside. Joseph gathered the straw and spread it out as best he could while Maria sank down with a sigh, her hands protectively resting on her belly.

It did not take long before Maria gave birth to her child there, in that old stable, in the middle of the night and surrounded by nothing but cold and silence. The little boy, barely born, cried softly, as if aware that even the gentlest sound carried meaning on a night like this.

Joseph held him carefully in his arms, gazing at him with a mixture of wonder and relief, while Maria looked up at them, exhausted but smiling. The small stable suddenly felt warm – not from fire or blankets, but from the invisible glow of a moment that was more than words could capture.

And so the tiny boy lay there, knowing nothing yet of the world, in a bed of straw. Barely born, he already possessed the power to change his surroundings – a power born solely of his existence.

“He looks so small,” Joseph whispered, wrapping the baby in the warmest cloth he could find among the stone walls. Yet in that moment, with the child in his arms and Maria beside him, the world seemed less cold, less hostile. It was as though this tiny being had brought into the space a warmth that was not merely physical, but something deeper – a quiet promise that even in the harshest circumstances, hope exists.

Joseph looked out into the snow-covered night, which now appeared brighter, almost as if filled with an invisible light. Rondorf, this small snow-covered place, suddenly seemed the center of the world. And perhaps it was – at least for this one night.

The police arrive

The patrol from Rodenkirchen, consisting of two officers with more sense of duty than enthusiasm, arrived at the Johanneshof shortly thereafter. What they found was not what they had expected. Maria lay on an improvised mat of straw, while Joseph warmed the baby with his hands. The child slept peacefully in an old feeding trough.

The officers exchanged a glance. This was not a case they had covered in training.

“What’s going on here?” asked the older of the two.

Joseph explained the situation briefly and plainly.
“My wife gave birth to our child. No rooms available. So we stayed here.”

Before the officers could react, a group of shepherds suddenly burst into the barn. They had come from the nearby Forest Botanical Garden, where they had left their sheep behind. They were the sort who might appear moderately respectable on a good day, but now looked like the very embodiment of disorder. Trailing behind them was a sheep, which immediately set about inspecting the remaining hay.

“We had to come!” one of the shepherds called out. “An angel told us to see the child!”

The police officer pulled out his notebook.
“An angel? With wings? White robes? Please tell me this is a joke. Have you taken something?”

But the shepherds shook their heads earnestly.
“He was glowing! It was wonderful! We were told to honor the child!”

“That sounds like exhaustion or substance abuse,” muttered the second officer.
“You’re from Meschenich, aren’t you?” he added sternly.

The distinguished men and the great confusion

Before the officers could recover from the shepherds, three men in expensive clothing and priceless sneakers appeared. They carried oddly scented packages.

“And who are you?” the older officer asked suspiciously.

“We are parapsychologists and have come from the east of the country,” one of them explained with a certain dignity. “We bring gifts: a golden singing bowl for meditation, a diffuser with a calming scent of frankincense, a rose quartz healing stone, and a digital storage device filled with inspiring meditations, music and wisdom.”

“A golden singing bowl?” the officer asked skeptically. “Did you declare that at customs?”

The men exchanged nervous glances.
“Well … we followed a star. That’s legal, isn’t it?”

The older officer shook his head.
“From the east, you say. Anyone could claim that. Let’s see your identification and visas.”

“This is getting complicated,” muttered the younger officer, reaching for his radio.
“We need backup.”

Chaos at the Johanneshof

The situation escalated when the youth welfare office in Meschenich was informed. Maria cried, Joseph protested, and the parapsychologists insisted they had to leave immediately, as a dream had warned them not to remain in Cologne.

Even the shepherds grew restless, insisting they had to stay because the angel had instructed them to do so.

“That’s enough now,” thundered the senior officer.

Maria was taken to the hospital in Bayenthal. Joseph was taken into custody and brought to the Klingelpütz. The baby was temporarily placed in the care of the youth welfare office. The three wise men and the shepherds were also detained, while the sheep continued chewing the hay, utterly unfazed.

Rondorf in an uproar

The next morning, Rondorf was seething with outrage.

Mrs. Buchmüller, who had observed the entire scene from her window, gave interviews that oscillated between compassion and self-righteousness. The local newspaper ran the headline:

“Großrotter Hof fully booked – family with newborn discovered in stable!”

On social media, heated debates erupted.
Some praised the hospitality of the people of Rondorf; others called for an investigation into the role of the police.
A few even claimed to have seen a bright star in the sky.

A new myth

While the authorities were still attempting to clarify the case, the story began to take on a life of its own.

The Johanneshof became a place of pilgrimage. People laid down flowers, lit candles and spoke of miracles and a holy night.

Maria and Joseph, now reunited in the hospital, read the reports with mixed feelings.
“Maybe they don’t understand us,” Maria said softly.
“But one day, everyone will know what really happened here.”

High above, hidden in the clouds, an angel grinned.

“Not bad, Rondorf,” he thought.
“Not bad at all.”